


Garupe Ruining Your Wedding

by in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather



Category: Silence (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27558052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather/pseuds/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather
Summary: During an illness, Francisco helps you get better, resulting in both of you feeling connected from then on.Eventually, he will have to decide if he can let you get married or do something about it.
Relationships: Angst - Relationship, Francisco Garupe/Original Female Character(s), Francisco Garupe/Reader, Francisco Garupe/You, religious themes - Relationship, violence - Relationship
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

# 

*

His anger had spilled over in your home.

His novitiate, a time for aiding people, teaching his soul and body to be a vessel for God’s mercy before he was humble enough to join the order, was spent running around after physicians, sliding around in blood and bile and blessing mangled bodies before they were tossed to rot in the earth.

The more the fever ravaged the city, the more monstrosities he had seen in the aftermath of their undertakings. It was too frightful to put into words, but the sights of spraying blood and vomit splattered against sheets and walls, engorged creatures writhing on the floors, broken glass and, God in Heaven, the smell, would never quite leave him if he lived for another century.

One of the homes he was bidden to visit was yours. He never knew what awful sight to expect on such visits. Your father was influential enough to have priests come to him, but not so influential as to tear Father Valignano from the funerals and swift baptisms he had to perform to lead these souls into Heaven.

All Francisco knew was that this lord’s wife had recently succumbed to the fever and now their daughter, who would not leave her side during her illness, was suffering from the same symptoms.

He was led in by a maid and found you writhing on top of the sheets, sweat dripping from you, intermingling with blood from where leeches have been removed, having sucked their fill of you and leaving open wounds in their wake. You were flushed red all over, running a fever for two straight days. In your state of pain and delirium, you were unresponsive, unable to express what was helping and what was not.

He immediately took the chemist and surgeon to task, seeing their ghastly menagerie of critters in glass jars and instruments of torture they were about to use on you.

Your father found the three men shouting at each other, the maid weeping in the corner.

“Have these supposed results been borne out? Whom have you helped? She is only getting worse and I will not stand by as you drain her like a mummy, and leave her gasping her last breath in her father’s arms!” – Francisco yelled, snatching things from their hands, tossing them on the floor, wanting to drive them out like Jesus drove out the merchants from the Temple.

“You have no authority here.” – one protested.

“The girl’s humors must be balanced! If we do not let out the bad blood, her brain will cook in her skull from the fever.” – added the other.

“What fresh lunacy have you in store?” – Francisco asked. – “Drain her of bad blood, then feed her nail clippings to make her vomit? Make an arsenic and swallow’s brains draught? Witches!”

“Mercury will cure the pox, my lord!” – the surgeon spoke to your father, ignoring the boy.

“But it will ruin her young mind, you charlatans, you’ve seen the patients who’ve recovered from that horror!” – Francisco knocked the tongs from his hand.

“If this fever continues, boy, the heart will soon be beyond repair.” – the chemist warned.

“So you plan to let leeches suck her dry until there is nothing for the heart to pump?” – Francisco challenged., growing more determined not to let them touch you, covering your feverish body with the sheet.

“And what will you administer, boy? Prayers?” – scoffed the surgeon.

“Humility. Patience, temperance, prayer. I will not leave her side until she is better. I will die by her side or live and praise God as long as I live for sparing her.” – Francisco explained.

“Those are some big promises. Let us hope your God can deliver.”

“Leave this place!” – Francisco commanded like he owned the house and they said goodbye to your father who observed the young Jesuit kneel by your bed and start praying.

*

When he finished with his other daily obligations, Francisco would come to your home. The maids were instructed not to let anyone do any bloodletting, nor to induce vomiting, only replenish the water the fever wrung from you and feed you if you were able to eat, soak rags in cold water and cool your head, but not let you kick the sheets off of yourself.

He would resume the work himself, cooling you down and praying all the while. When you started to cry and moan and fight against him to push the sheets off, he cried in relief. The sight and sound broke his heart, but at least you were strong enough to fight and struggle.

Late one night, when everyone was asleep and he was barely holding his rosary up, he heard a feeble voice.

“Have I died?”

He looked up and saw you touch your painful throat, the skin on your face, red and cracked and peeling from the fever. – “No, I believe you are recovering.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Francisco.”

“Francisco.” – you repeated and his heart beat faster. – “I’ve been dreaming… that I was trying to soar to Heaven. And my guardian angel wouldn’t let me spread my wings. He was holding me down, tying me up in a sack to keep me on Earth.” – you explained and he though it must have been fever dreams, as he was keeping your under your sheets. – “And I going to die?” – you asked earnestly, not seeming afraid, only exhausted.

“I won’t let you.” – he said, with more authority than he had. You should know that, that he would not let you go. It would give you strength to fight.

*

After that night, the fever started to break and bit by bit, you were able to sit up, drink, eat, stand. Francisco kept coming by and became the person you trusted most. If you were not sure about something, you waited until he came by and then asked him.

One afternoon, as you were walking through the garden so you would soak in some sun, you talked about future plans. His term as a novitiate was at an end, meaning he would soon be ordained and then only God knew where he would go and what his mission would be.

“Did you know, I first thought you were a doctor.” – you smiled, thinking back to the days when you were first recovering from your illness.

“I believe you first thought I was your angel.” – Francisco reminded, hands behind his back as he walked beside you, slow to accommodate your pace.

You felt embarrassed that you had rambled in your delirium, saying things you normally never would. – “Yes, I suppose. But when I had my wits about me, when you had helped me recover, I thought you must be a doctor. And I was so bitterly disappointed when my maid told me you were not.”

“How so?”

“My silly fantasies had already run away with me. I was imagining we would be friends.”

“Are we not friends?”

“I… suppose. But you are going to be a priest. I will be just another parishioner, and that is supposing you stay here in the first place.”

Francisco stopped, breaths coming fast and shallow with his thoughts in a tempest. He stood, pursing and chewing his lips in thought for a long time, and you waited for him to be ready to speak. – “That night, when your fever was first starting to break… You condition was at a desperate point. You would either start to recover or you body would give out, there was no more for the disease to eat up.” – he reminisced, eyes hard and distant, the despair of that moment fresh in his mind. – “I had prayed in worship and praise, I prayed in petition and nothing had improved. So that night, I went on my knees and wept and prayed in supplication. I promised I would serve you, guide you to be the best you could be, if only He let you stay with us.” – he revealed, remembering the force and fervor of his prayers that night, the total abandon and surrendering to God’s will and the vastness of His grace when he allowed you to speak to him and set his heart at peace. – “So you could never be just another parishioner to me. And I dearly hope we can remain friends.”

When he looked at you, your eyes were full of tears, in love and gratitude to him and God, for sparing your life and giving you Francisco to lead you.

*

In the lead up to his ordination, Francisco struggled with a lot of doubt and feelings of unworthiness, hypocrisy, considering not taking the robes. Father Valignano insisted he would be his successor and that, while doubts are an inevitable and ultimately welcome part of life, he had the makings of a great Jesuit priest and there was no turning back.

So Francisco was ordained and became Father Garupe to you and others, although he always insisted you could call him by his name when it slipped your mind and you apologized for using it.

The fever had left your heart weakened, so your father and maids worried and kept talking you out of doing anything that caused exertion, but the one thing they could not stop you from doing was charity.

You argued that God would protect you as you did His work and that you owed it to Him and His church to pay your respects and do something with the life that was given to you.

“You were not at confession this week.” – Father Garupe noted as he walked alongside you to accompany you to your carriage, you carrying a now empty basket of donations.

“I was not.” – you confirmed, feeling guilty.

When you didn’t continue, he pressed on. – “Is everything alright? I was frightfully worried something had happened, you are normally so dutiful.”

“No, nothing had… I mean, yes, in a way, I suppose. I just… couldn’t put it into words.” – you stammered, walking faster, almost at the carriage.

“Can you put it into words now? I can take your confession anywhere.” – he offered.

You stopped and looked at him and he was almost knocked back to see you look so sad and frightened. His arms instantly shot up to hold you around the shoulders before he caught himself and put them down. – “I don’t think I have the words yet. But… I would like your advice.”

*

You sat together in the white stoned courtyard and Francisco hung on your every word. – “Father will want me to marry soon.” – you declared like it was a death sentence. – “I just don’t see myself married to any of the men n the town. You know how that is, don’t you? You saw a vision for your life. Felt a calling.”

Francisco nodded, the topic of your marriage feeling intensely painful to discuss. – “Do you feel a calling?”

“Perhaps. I have been thinking of taking the habit.” – you suggested and his head immediately started shaking, so you hurriedly explained. – “Then I could truly serve God. And you would be near and you could instruct me in everything you see fit.”

“No!” – he insisted, fists closing. Due to the simple fact that his body was roaring to have you near, that he wanted to possess you so badly, he knew he had to tell you no. – “You are my protégé with or without taking the habit. I did not wrestle your life away from the clutches of death for you not to live it.”

“I would be living it.” – you protested timidly, never seeing Francisco react that way before. – “There are noble women who do this. It is not unheard of, I think I could do it …”

“Yes, yes, they do it if they are too ugly or poor to get married, you are neither.” – he spat out without his usual diplomacy and consideration, blushing at his brusque behavior and the admission that he found you beautiful. – “Besides, even if you were either of those things, that would not be the right reason to become a nun.”

You sat, thinking, for a long while, knowing you were expected home soon. Finally, when your thoughts settled on the only conclusion you could see, you got up, Francisco mirroring your movements, eyes trained on you and waiting for a reaction. – “I see that my fate is to be moved around, like a chair around a parlor. Without a soul, without a voice. At the whim of my father and whatever husband would take me…” – you lamented and Francisco grabbed hold of your arm.

“I promise you. I will not let your father choose a husband you find disagreeable.” – he said in a pleading tone, not wanting to part from in such a desperate state. – “You have a soul, and you have a voice. And both of those are dear to God, he gave them to you out of love. And I will serve them both as best as I can.”

Your chin started wobbling and tears spilled from your eyes, relieved and grateful to have his support. You bowed your head and reached for his hand to kiss in gratitude, but he wrapped you in a hug, which you returned without hesitating.

You laid your head against his shoulder, feeling protected and comforted resting on his chest, shielded by his arms, and he closed his eyes, finally holding you, like he should. He longed to hold you closer, to press kisses into your skin, but he felt sick and faithless for having those thoughts. Instead, he pressed a kiss into your hair, holding it between his fingers so you wouldn’t feel a thing; he did not dare do more than that. But regardless, he was lost.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.  
> *  
> CW: angst, some religious themes, violence

[ ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0430e4990b5d7a0a8b44e3d9fe62a8ce/93c988f1304aa8b1-36/s500x750/ed029816b35a7a1e617a4a14dab3b1e663598ac6.gifv)

Months passed as your father carefully searched for a suitable match. He advised with friends, business partners and Father Garupe, trying to find a man of good morals and good prospects, but they all seemed to be lacking something.

For your part, as soon as a new prospect arose, you would run to Fransisco with your skirts hiked up in your hands to complain of something.

“He ogles the maids.”

“He’s the color of a Christmas ham.”

“He’s as old as father!”

Francisco would mostly chuckle to himself when he heard your ostensibly superficial complaints, keeping to himself what he had made it his business to learn about those men. One owed money, which dissuaded your father from the match. Another had a brother who could not produce a child. Another still had a reputation for keeping company with disreputable moneylenders.

*

One match he could not change your father’s mind on. A successful merchant, revered for his business acumen and Dionysian approach to life. It was clear to Francisco the moment Viegas was brought up that his wealth and connections were too powerful a motivator for his questionable behavior to be a strong enough deterrent.

Still, Francisco hoped. He did not tell you of the potential match, not when you came to confession, not when you delivered food and cloth to the nuns, not when you walked in the garden.

One day, Viegas came to the church, leaving an arrogantly sizeable donation and asking to speak to your confessor. Built up and handsome, with sparkling dark eyes and ostentatious clothing, he walked around the church courtyard like he owned everything his eyes fell on, like he was the happiest creature in the garden of God. Francisco instantly felt a rage grip him in its claws, blood boiling just at the mention of his name. He begged forgiveness for his temper, the passionate nature than often made anger flare up in him and consume him.

The villain had the audacity to question how good of a match he was getting, inquiring about your virtues and what you had to recommend you, having once been almost eaten up by a fever.

”The girl has no want of wit or stature, Senhor Viegas. She survived the fever with minimal damage, only strengthening her virtues and passion for a life lived well.” – Francisco assured, battling with himself to keep hostility from his tone.

“If you say so, Father. I have heard the girl is willful and indomitable at times, busying herself more with charitable works outside the home than the study of skills necessary to make an exemplary wife.” – Viegas noted with some disappointment.

“Rumors are nasty things and they threaten to poison wells. One is advised not to drink of them.” – Francisco answered, insulted that your quality may be questioned precisely because of your unselfish acts. He could not stop the words. – “Your intended bride might equally ask herself if it is true her husband suffers from the Castilian disease and might compromise the health he expresses concern for even more. If she were low enough to believe rumors.”

Viegas laughed as if he had received a compliment. - “My bride needs not worry of syphilis or sores. I have made it a rule to only harvest maidenheads to avoid any disputable paternity claims or the indelicacies that stem from overuse of their tender flowers.”

“I am not your confessor and I bed you not to tell me more as no vow precludes me from repeating what I hear. I am a man of God and I cannot listen to you speak that way of His lambs, Senhor.”

“Even the most innocent lamb is destined for the lustful ram, Father. I am sure, after years of taking confession, you know more of that than even I, who has sinned and rammed prolifically.” – Viegas went to far as to shove his elbow playfully into the priest’s ribs, as if they were friends and confidantes. Francisco looked at the arm and waited until he retreated to a respectable distance once more. - ”In any case, I did not come to confess or boast. It is my understanding you have been instrumental in her recovery and subsequently became her most trusted advisor. I am glad to hear her counsel comes from a man of faith. I have to thank you for what you have done for my bride so far and urge you to advise her to enter into marriage gladly and promptly. My business will soon take me elsewhere and I wish to conclude this affair during my stay.”

*

You came to visit and share the good news that your father had been silent on the issue of marriage for a few days, a fact that provided respite from the worry the topic caused you most of the time.

As you entered through the gate, you saw a young woman, younger than you, kneel in front of Father Garupe, kissing his hand with gratitude and devotion. He observed her, allowing her the moment, eyes shut tight, her small hands gripping his firmly, almost shaking with the intensity of what was troubling her, or what had been resolved. He spoke to her with a serious face and she looked up, nodding dutifully, her whole body screaming she would do what he said even from a distance where no word could be discerned.

You smiled at both the soft and the harder gesture; Francisco was a unique blend of compassionate, but immovable on base principles, able to even speak sternly and still stir love for God and encourage obedience.

She smiled at you as she passed by, surely having seen you around on many occasions. You returned the greeting and fixed your eyes on the Father, your friend Francisco, grateful and privileged that you have him not only as a confessor and source of absolution, but a friend, a loving presence and may see a different side of him than most people.

He smiled when he saw you, the expression fading as you approached and he remembered the news he had to deliver, aware that he could not put it off any longer.

After the shock and recrimination that he has kept it from you, along with everyone else, the futility and inescapability of the position set in and the despair that was tentatively kept at bay collapsed all around in full force.

Legs giving out, he had to drag your listless body to a bench and he knelt in front of you, waiting, should you faint, be sick, shout, cry, strike him, he waited with bated breath, there to take it.

A long silence, a difficult inner conversation, a heavy goodbye to the notion of freedom and happiness later, you leaned back, face turned to the heavens. – “It had to be someone. More or less loathsome, what is the difference? What I really want can’t be. So any compromise is a sacrifice.”

Heart suspended in agony and anticipation, Francisco scooted closer, so close that he could just reach out, gather you in his arms and hide you before anyone could blink. – “What is it you want?” – he asked, tongue sticking to his dry mouth, shamefully willing you to be braver than him, to say what he could only guess or yearn for when the night is quietest and he is all alone.

“What I want is to be free to make my decisions, and if decisions and choice are taken from me, I will surely never get what I want. Then anything can happen, and anything will. I don’t care anymore.”

Before he could respond with his indignation, the fury at your tossing aside the life he had so much love and hope for, you were on your feet and trudging back to your home.

*

Weeks passed and the wedding was put together quickly; your father and betrothed pleasantly surprised that you assumed the appropriately meek role of a blushing bride, compliant with everything, free of caprice or demands.

At confession, you claimed you had nothing to confess, only to be confronted by Francisco, chiding you for throwing away your life and acting like it was not the most precious gift, thoughtlessly committing the worst sin of all. His invitation to come see him and talk as you used to was declined.

Francisco quietly despaired, both of things he readily admitted to himself and others that he didn’t. He felt attached to and responsible for your life, as your recovery had been the closest he believed he would ever come to seeing a miracle and God’s work unfolding before his eyes, his most vehement and sincere prayers answered in the most merciful way. Now one of the few people he could call a friend was shunning his company and getting ready to enter a wretchedly miserable union, casting herself into the depths of despair and hopelessness, when she would need him the most and he was powerless to do anything. He thought of that day when his anger spilled over and drove your tormentors from your home and longed to do something now. The very thought of not walking with you, hearing your shy confession or letting you kiss his hand snuffed out all light around him.

*

Exactly a week before the fateful day, he made his way over to your home, to help prepare the bride-to-be for the upcoming ceremony and offer guidance.

The expression that greeted him was plainer and colder than death, so much less alive than even at your most fever-ridden. His greeting and questions were unanswered. After a bout of silence and his eyes fiendish and insistent for a response, you produced a velvet pouch with the ring inside. The sight pricked his heart with a hot needle as he extended his hand and examined the gold and silver band.

 _Two hands, one heart, till death us part_ it read, each engraved letter another nail in his coffin.

“Would that marriage came on the back of a snail and death on the back of a horse.” – you sighed, taking the ring back and sitting, making yourself comfortable for whatever lecture Francisco came to deliver.

“You cannot talk like that.” – he warned, sitting opposite you.

“Say whatever you’ve come to say and leave me.” – you half-demanded, half-pleaded, looking away as if he were not really there.

“I’ve come to listen. I will always listen to what you have to say.” – he reminded.

A ghost of comfort appeared, though Francisco could offer no more assistance, the thought of being heard at least as you unburden your heart was something.

“I am sad, Francisco. Sadder than I knew was possible to feel.” – the admission came easily, after weeks of being pushed off and denied. – “And I am so afraid. I worry something will overtake me, like I will die when I hear the vows I should take.” – saying the words aloud made so much more real and you could just imagine perishing at the altar, a wedding dress as shroud.

Francisco was by your chair, on his knees, before the first tear rolled out of your eyes, timidly looking at your hand before taking it, observing it like a holy relic and placing a kiss on the back, a strange warmth spreading all up your arm, into your chest.

“There is nothing to be afraid of. Marriage is one of the most beautiful sacraments and the vows are…they will comfort you when you hear them.”

“I doubt that.”

“They are the tenderest, most solemn sentiments that can be expressed, I promise you.”

“What will you say?” – you asked, leaning your head to the side to look at him from a different angle. – “You will officiate, won’t you?” – his silence confirmed what you suspected. – “If you want to help me through that awful day, then tell me at least what lies I am to agree to.”

He got up, taking a step back and you followed, up and taking a step closer. He had been preparing the vows in his head for weeks and he too was anxious about saying them, knowing that the union did not bring you joy. He hoped that maybe the right words would open both your eyes and hearts and give you a chance at happiness.

*

“Bless this ring, O Lord, which we bless in your name.” – Francisco started, despite protests that this was highly unusual. – “May she who wear it be ever faithful to her husband. May she enjoy peace of mind docile to thy will, loving and being loved in thee.” – he supplicated, knowing Viegas was a swine in more ways than one, incapable of giving love as it should be given and unworthy of a woman like you. – “As long as life shall last. With this ring, I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With this body, I thee worship. And with all my worldly gifts, I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” – he concluded, slipping the ring first on the index, then middle, then ring finger before retracting it and setting in on the table.

By the time he was finished, whatever feeble optimism he had was forgotten. The expression he saw was even more vacant and disengaged than before and he knew, deep in his bones, his love would be dead all too soon if this marriage went ahead.

Reluctantly, he left, spending days in his room, poring over any reason why the marriage might not be performed – proximity to holidays or lent, or any indication of ineligibility, but there was none. 

*

The days tumbled one over the other fast and all too soon, it was the morning of the wedding.

The bride had her silver gown, pristine and beautifully made, the groom his best suit, richly embroidered and fitted like a dream. The church teemed with people and the day was pleasant and joyous.

At the ceremony, Viegas shone with delight enough to compensate for the bride’s somber formality, regarded as a credit to her for taking her duties as seriously as they ought to be taken.

Father Garupe gave a speech about the sacrament taking place, waiting for you to give him one look, if nothing else, something to put his heart at rest that he was not perverting a holy sacrament in the most offensive way by allowing this to happen.

No response came either when the ceremony started. Your eyes followed listlessly as Viegas assented to endow you with his worldly gifts, setting down a purse of gold coins on Garupe’s prayer book in place of the customary one, the weight of all the impressed curious eyes palpable on it. The Father could discern your fingers shaking when Viegas slipped the ring on two of them before sliding it all the way down your ring finger. He swore he could feel the same tremor in his hand, causing him to ball it up into a fist and then stretch it out by force.

“If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” – the Father proclaimed, the tradition all but obsolete for unions between any couple who has not eloped. The short break before the pronunciation of the newlyweds as officially married took place. And continued. It stretched as if waiting for someone who was late to intervene. It lengthened as people glanced side to side. Shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Leaned over and whispered in confusion.

You finally looked up and Francisco saw a desperate, almost animalistic hope in your eyes that some miracle had occurred and you would be spared this misery.

“Father?” – Viegas chuckled, wondering if it was customary for this silence to be this long. – “I don’t think anyone is riding in on horseback into this church, revealing I have a secret family in another town.”- he joked and a few laughs filled the echoing church. – “We can proceed.”

“We cannot.” – Francisco slammed his prayed book down and stared angrily at the words on the page. Did it have to come to this? Was there no other reasonable way of remedying this situation?

“What was that, Father?” – Viegas asked, his veneer of patience and good humor dissolving as the unpleasant scene threatened to forever tarnish his wedding day as a scandal.

Francisco sighed, feeling his whole body burn and quake from the fear and shame of what he was about to confess and do. – “You recovery was mine. Selfishly, I viewed it as my miracle. The face of God coming to show me how precious life is, how mighty His mercy is, how magnificent it is to love with your whole heart.” – he started, speaking only to you, murmurs filling up the air behind you.

“But I know my place. My lot is to be on the outside, watering the earth and only intuit the deep roots under it.” – he deflated just as your chest started to vibrate and ache, waking up for the first time in forever. – “However!” – he roared, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear, not wanting his confession and ruin to be a meek cowardly affair. – “When I wrestled your life away from death’s clutches, it was because I wanted you alive! Too much was taken from us all when the fever ransacked our city and your recovery was the turning point. That is, ultimately, what despite my doubts, made me take the robes. I had to offer my service in return for this gift. I intended to look at you and love you at least from afar, but there are times when love means getting involved.” – gasps and protests rang off the walls and Francisco was quick to finish his thought before anyone snapped out of their bewilderment and a circus broke out. – “So I cannot let you marry this man, knowing him to be a scoundrel and you not acquiescing to the union with your heart. I will not perform the wedding.”- he concluded mere moments before he got punched, Viegas leaping and pouncing on him like a wild animal.

Francisco, being a man of God and a pacifist, would not have defended himself anyway, but now he was out of consciousness, providing absolutely no resistance. A less outraged man might have left it at that, but Viegas stood over his bleeding form, straddled him and lifted him by the rubes on his chest, landing more punches on his face, the wet squishy sounds of ruined flesh and spraying blood nauseating. You tried to reach them and separate them, but your father pulled you away, the crowd of people quickly engulfing both of you as the masses struggled to catch sight of the beating and the few people with some sense of decency pushed against the throng, directing them towards the exit.

Francisco’s head landed on the floor with a sickening dull thud as Viegas got to his feet and started stomping on his chest.

You wailed and pleaded to be let back into the church before two harsh slaps brought you back unpleasantly into the moment and your father glared, irate eyes promising to tear you to pieces once you were alone, before stuffing you into the carriage like a sack of flour.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: some descriptions of injuries, mentions of violence, some misogyny, religious themes

*

At home, you were pushed up the stairs among questions and concerned looks from the maids, and locked in your room.

After several agonizing hours, not knowing what happened to Francisco or when you would be let out, your father returned. He announced the priest was taken care of, refusing to specify whether that meant someone was helping him or Viegas continued to punish him. Upon insisting to hear more, more slaps and hits rained down.

“My daughter. A common whore. They are already calling you a seductress of priests, Satan’s bitch. Do you even comprehend that your reputation is now tarnished beyond repair?” – he crouched to get closer to your face, making you wince and pull back.

There was little point in arguing when his temper was this roused and any reasonable claim that your relationship with Francisco never transcended the platonic would fall on deaf ears.

“What do I do with you now?” – he asked, looking at you like a disobedient animal. – “Speak!” – he thundered when no response came.

Looking down to hide your eyes, you tried to conceal the desperate, but growing resolution to run away. There was hardly any prospect of a harmonious marriage for you now, and all, it seems, that awaited was a barrage of insults and abuse in your father’s home and contempt from the city.

“Maybe some lashes will loosen your forked tongue.” – he contemplated, getting up to his feet. – “You will sit here, with no food or water, and wait until I return. And you will thank me for the lashes when I’m done.” – he informed and left, locking the door behind him.

*

Your youngest maid, who accompanied you to most places if you required company, who helped dress you that morning, had a softer heart and despite your father’s threat, which could be heard all around the house, dared to come inside and visit you in his absence.

The door opened slowly and quietly, letting you know right away it was definitely not your father.

She approached wearily, offering a tray of food and water, asking if she could do anything. This kindness, after the biggest emotional upheaval in your life, was disarming and all the more precious for the personal risk it carried for you both.

“Thank you.” – you choked out, stomach too constricted to think about food, despair washing over you with fresh sobs.

“Don’t cry, senhorita, please. Your father will not have the heart to lash you, I am sure.” – her trembling voice tried to comfort you, though his fury was beyond doubt and you knew he was not thinking clearly.

She was surprised to see your face contort into a grotesque smile, laughter wrestling with the agony. – “I’m not crying about that. It’s Father Garupe.” – you admitted with a sinking heart, telling her all about the event since it was only a matter of time before she knew anyway.

“I knew it!” – she exclaimed, like she had been reading a passionate romance novel and her favorite couple finally faced their feelings. Her eyes darted around in excitement and she hesitated before confessing what she had thought for long in secret. – “Forgive me, but I thought he loved you even back then when you were ill. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“I hope so. I certainly fell in love with him with first time I saw him in that delirious haze, thinking he was angel.” – you recalled the brutal and confusing time of fighting for your life and the vision of this pale angel with dark locks and a gentle, focused expression bringing you so much comfort.

“But I still don’t want you to get hurt because of that confession, it’s not fair!” – she spoke more forcefully now, more romantic and zealous than you ever knew her to be.

“All that will pass. No one will hurt me more than they have already hurt Franc—oh, it was hideous!” – you covered your eyes with your hands to shield from the image of him bloody and prostrate on the floor, but it was burnt into your memory. – “I just want to see him, take care of him now that he needs it.”

Her name was called out and she ran headlong for the door, in an effort to stop anyone from noticing she was with you, for both your sakes.

In her absence, you forced some water down your throat and thought of what you could do. You had a rather good idea, the only one you could imagine working and you would have to give it your best shot.

*

The more time passed, the more worried you were that your one escape route would be impeded by your father’s return and you wondered if you could climb out of the window or ram the door with something to get out. But that would only risk getting you caught before you even had the chance to run.

Suddenly, the door and lock jiggled with urgency and swung quickly open, making you retreat and brace yourself for more abuse from your father.

“Senhorita!” – your maid whispered excitedly. – “I have news!” – she ran at you and got unusually close, telling you in a rushed and disjoined murmur all about the boy, one of many, running around town and telling people of the developments in this story – Father Rodrigues stepped in, defending Father Garupe and calming the masses down with his gentle supplications and delivered a speech about his Jesuit brother being the least possessed of pride and ambition and cunning and scheming, that his only sin was a passionate temper and his inability to deny his truth and perform a ceremony with a deceitful heart. He sought sanctuary for him in a convent and was there now, with surgeons inspecting Father Garupe’s injuries and would soon meet the offended father and bridegroom in his brother’s stead, with other church officials. Father Garupe was in the convent that received your patronage regularly and they were open to receiving him as he did nothing criminal and was savagely attacked apart from that. While he recovered, he was safe from prosecution, attacks or arrest.

Body finally giving out from too much emotion and strain, some small amount of reassurance running through it, you collapsed towards the floor, only held up partly by your maid’s hands and her pulling you against herself. – “None of that now, please! This is good! It is the best that could have happened given the circumstances, be glad!”

It took many deep breaths, loosening your corset and her hand soothing up and down your back to calm down enough to stop shaking. After which, you explained your plan and begged her to help you.

Though reluctant, she agreed, knowing now was the most painless time to do it – any more waiting would only result in more, and possibly more serious, tragedy.

So she stripped out of her work dress as you stripped out of your silver wedding dress, letting you put on her clothes and hide your intricately styled hair under her cap and tie finally her hands to the bedpost – tightly enough that she couldn’t move, but not so tight you injured her needlessly. The story she was to give was that you cried and begged her to come in and give you some food and water and she stupidly accepted, only to be threatened at gun point to give you her clothes and let you tie her up. When she inquired where the gun was supposed to come from, you said you would steal one of father’s pistols and claim you had had it stowed away a while ago. Before you left, you thanked her with all your heart, kissing both her cheeks before, as gently as you could, you stuffed her mouth with a handkerchief and quietly snuck out.

*

Francisco came to in the dormitory of the local convent. He could discern some familiar voices, an examination being done on him, but it was all swallowed up by the amount of pain and shock his body was in. Mouth tasting brassy and nauseating, several points on his head pulsating painfully, ribs panging sharply with every breath, a throbbing gash on his thigh and numerous aching spots scattered across his body from punches and kicks.

He closed his eyes, feeling weak and dizzy in that darkness behind his lids, contemplating how every sin had jumped out his body like a bad spirit.

In his passion, lustful coveting, desire to possess what was not to be his, he ruined your wedding, disgraced himself and everyone else in the process. He also ruined your reputation and prospects, perhaps forever, as well as his own, but that was barely even worth considering to him at this moment. Distantly, he wondered if he would only continue to feel weaker and fall deeper into the anguish of pain until he perished. That might be for the best.

He had heard many confessions and witnessed many cases, but he never understood how men could commit such atrocities for women and love; love was supposed to be good and uplifting and lead to positive outcomes. He never knew, until now, when, blinded and immobile with pain, he only wondered what you thought, if he would see you again.

*

Sebastiao returned from talking to Viegas and the bride’s father, trying to rouse mercy in them, sending them home to clear their heads and headed for the convent, to see his brother.

“How are you feeling, Francisco?” – he asked intimately, using his given name since they were in private.

“I cannot say yet, you probably have a better idea of it than I.” – Francisco responded, wounds cleaned and changed from his torn, bloody robes into a sick man’s sleeping gown.

“You leg is injured, Viegas slashed into it with a Monstrance. And he broke two of your ribs, as far as we could tell. And I am afraid we cannot let you sleep tonight because of the injuries to your head, you’ll have to cling to consciousness until we know your brain is not swelling.” – Sebastiao informed him of the worst injuries and sighed.

“If God wants you to suffer, you should accept that suffering willingly and humbly.” – Francisco claimed, wishing most of all he could just surrender to sleep and forget his miserable state for a while.

Sebastiao understood he meant not only his bodily injuries, but his internal struggles as well. – “And if God wants you to love? What then?”- he asked, knowing the question was taunting enough to keep his temperamental friend engaged and awake.

“Do not make jokes at a time like this, Seb.” – Francisco closed his eyes for a moment, fists clenching by his sides. – “I have not known enough of love not to confuse it with the sin of lust. Therefore, I cannot throw away our immortal souls on a whim.”

Sebastiao could not contain a laugh of true amusement. His erudite, thoughtful, stern friend suddenly seemed like an illiterate, petulant child. – “It must be true, then, what they say – that too much love can blind you to the obvious.”- he explained before Francisco’s temper could flare any more. – “I’ve been observing you two for years. You seem like two dumb calves, so earnestly and timidly in love. Fran, I thought you knew that much at least.”- Sebastiao laughed some more in his incredulity. –“Frankly, I thought something…more was happening. For a while now.” – he confessed and Francisco tried shooting up in his outrage, but collapsed back onto the bed as pain stabbed all over his tortured body. – “Relax! Please! I apologize.” – he placated, hands on his shoulders, gently pushing down. – “Don’t misunderstand, I did not think badly of either of you for it. I just assumed you wouldn’t let it get this far. For months now, I have been waking up, expecting that one morning, I would be greeted with the news of your elopement.”

“You are either joking very cruelly or you have lost your mind.” - Francisco chided, trying to bury his heart dancing happily in his chest at the thought of eloping.

“Excuse me, Father.” - a nun knocked softly and came in. – “What can we give Father Garupe for the pain throughout the night?” – she asked in order to make arrangements when Sebastiao departed.

“Poultices, rags soaked in cold water… We mostly just have to wait this night out…” – he started to explain when commotion and arguing rang around the cloister.

Moments later, you burst through door, apologizing as you pushed past the young nun and threw yourself by Francisco’s bed.

“On second thought, I think the best medicine just made itself known.” – he grinned at the nun, who looked awkwardly from side to side and retreated out of the room.

With no preamble or false regard for anyone watching or listening, you held Francisco’s face gently in your hands and leaned down to kiss him. He tasted like blood and wine, and love and life.

Afraid that this was some deathly vision, Francisco dared not move, receiving the kiss and feeling his ruined body soar with delight, threatening to dissolve from the onset of ecstasy. He would not mind embracing death in this sublime state, it was so much more merciful than he could imagine.

You only stopped when the thrill of the kiss subsided and you felt his features twisting against your skin, knowing he had to be suffering a lot of pain.

When you looked around, you were alone in the room and turned back, happier for it, examining Francisco more closely, taking in what injuries he suffered and where it seemed least cruel to touch him. Taking his hand, you sat on the floor next to him, resolved to stay until they physically pried you away.

He stayed still for a few moments, eyes closed because his tremulous heart was not ready to behold his beloved, hot tears spilling down his temples into his hair. Shame again pricked him for indulging in the feeling he had renounced again and again, claiming to himself and the world and to God that his love for Him was greater than anything. Now he was hiding like a coward and letting you weep and worry and hold him and, angels in Heavens, kiss him, but it was also the first moment he felt like he could truly relax, as he badly needed to, and enjoy your hands on him, the love in your touch and comfort of your presence.

He leaned his head to the side so he could look at you, pain shooting through him at the slightest motion, and you scooted closer, giving him all your love and tenderness through your eyes.

Soon, the Mother Superior herself came to get involved in the scandalous situation, shuffling down the same cloister you pushed your way through, with several other nuns in tow.

“Reverend Mother?” – you asked, seeing how the other nuns looked at and deferred to the woman, knowing she was not someone to be trifled with. You got to your feet out of respect, though it took a great effort to part, even a few steps, from your Francisco now.

“I have been informed of the situation that has taken place this day. Know, child, I am sympathetic to both your plights and therefore, with Father Rodrigues’ vouching, you have been granted sanctuary. However, passions are burning too brightly this day and it is time for you to retire. Father Garupe needs rest and you should go.” – she spoke compassionately, but with that same sternness Francisco also exhibited when he spoke of penitence, obedience, duty – everything he believed God placed him and women like this to preach in God’s name.

“Do you want me to leave?” – you asked Francisco before you considered that it might show disrespect to the Mother Superior, but the gasps of the nuns around her quickly made you aware of it.

Francisco could barely speak, but he said no, to never leave him again.

“The Father is barely conscious.” – the Reverend Mother pointed out, lest his romantic, passionate pleas stir the imagination of her sisters too much. – “It is inappropriate for you to be in this room with him. We will provide a room of your own and…”

You decided to stop her before she wasted any more breath. – “Forgive me, Reverend Mother, but I ran away from the prison my father turned our home into. I regret to tell you that I will undoubtedly break out of whatever room you may lock me into here.”

The woman was wise enough to know you were not saying it to disrespect her, but she had to try to restore order. – “We have granted sanctuary to Father Garupe on account of the vicious attack he endured and on the strength of his service to our city. Your previous patronage and current persecution secure you sanctuary with us, but _not_ to…encourage this untoward behavior.” 

“Do you know Francisco helped me recover from that awful fever that ravaged the city years ago? How can I leave his side now? Besides, he is to be my husband one day soon.”

“Father Garupe…” – she reminded of the correct way to address him. – “…is an ordained Jesuit priest and he is not eligible to marry. Do not forget you are in the house of God and you cannot blaspheme like this, even if sanctuary had been bestowed on you tenfold.” – she gave you a look that tied your tongue and made you shiver, before turning her attention to Francisco. – “We beseech you to talk some sense into this mischievous girl, Father Garupe, while we set up a room for her. I will send one of my sisters to fetch her later.” – the Reverend Mother asked, leaving and taking her flustered nuns with her.

Unsurprisingly, Francisco was unsuccessful in persuading you to leave, but you were successful in sweet talking the nun sent to take you and taking over the duty of keeping him awake and tending to his wounds. At least you would make yourself useful that way, you emphasized.

To keep your beloved awake, you made him talk and talk and recall all sorts of things, apologizing for your insistence when his speech slurred and faded, almost dozing off, and then rousing him by pressing your nose into his cheek and your lips on his forehead. He spent the night recounting everything you did not know of him thus far, about his childhood, about his love for you, about his torments and wishes. 

Morning came and the surgeons examined him once more, declaring he was obviously badly beaten, but would recover in time. Finally, he was free to surrender to restorative sleep and not be roused until his body woke up naturally.

Since you had already broken all manner of rules of conduct, the exasperated Reverend Mother shook her head and allowed you stay with Francisco until he fell asleep and then retire to your room to rest too.

You pet his hair softly, giving him a long kiss on his bruised lips, assuring him he could rest to his heart’s content and you would be there to give him another kiss when he awoke, this day, and all the days to come. Francisco fell asleep with a contented smile on his face and slept without dreaming for many hours.

*

Days passed and the first signs of healing appeared.

His cut up lip was healing and it made all the stolen kisses a lot more pleasant for him. His bruises changed all the colors of the rainbow and the smaller ones were slowly fading. He could breathe more deeply, training his lungs and his leg was getting stronger.

You were given chores, alongside the other nuns, and were asked to follow their schedule, rising at around four in the morning, attending prayers and performing whatever tasks needed doing.

In your free hours, nobody could nor, indeed, tried to keep you away from Francisco, keeping him company in his room, or taking him out on short walks down the cloisters or the yard. What did surprise the nuns was the work allotted to you, based on your perceived abilities and speed, was always done so much faster and more diligently than anyone expected, so you could run and spend whatever time was left over with the sole object of your affections and efforts.

One such day, when you finished cleaning the refectory and sped on over to Francisco’s quarters, the Reverend Mother was waiting inside, with Francisco sitting up, face half amused that she guessed you would appear and half disenchanted that she will order you away. You froze in the doorway, out of breath from the exertion of working double speed and running across the convent.

“My dear child, you cannot be with Father Garupe all the time…”- she started and raised a hand to silence your protests. – “…even though I know what you will say is true, that you are aiding his recovery immensely and taking that duty off our hands.” – she raised an amused eyebrow when you closed your mouth, the clever arguments that worked so far were starting to falter. - “Your devotion to our young priest is… admirable. In a manner of speaking. But God needs your devotion too.” – she reminded and sent you out to pray, accompanying you personally, as you mouthed to Francisco you loved him over your shoulder and breathed in deeply, getting ready to do communion with God as earnestly as you could.

*

Days turned into weeks and Francisco was recovering as well as anyone could be expected to, his vigor renewed by your presence and his mind slowly starting to arrive at conclusions and decisions regarding both of your next moves, in counsel with Sebastiao.

His injuries were deemed to heal enough in two weeks’ time, after which his period of sanctuary would come to an end. After that, Sebastiao informed, he was to leave the convent and stand trial. Viegas and your father vowed to him openly that they would buy whatever judge necessary, turn opinion against Francisco no matter how much Sebastiao fought against it, claiming that no woman was safe from the lust of ‘that perverse, pernicious man’. This made whatever testimony you may provide hollow, as they could counter this was just his immoral influence over you.

It was a challenge to keep the conversation going and chase away the heavy silence full of contemplation and sadness and indignity over what was happening to all of you, but Sebastiao’s tireless hope and cheer provided some consolation while he was there.

After he was gone, you saw Francisco was restless and his body twitched with all the pent up frustration he was feeling.

“Can you walk, angel? Do you want to join me outside?” – you offered, leaning your head on your hand as you watched him be immediately be softened by the name you reserved for him.

“I think I can, my love. I’d love to join you.”- he sighed, feeling the movement stab through his injured ribs.

“Still hurts?” – you asked, commiserating. He just offered a powerless lift of his eyebrows, accepting his still feeble state and slowly turned to get up and cause himself the least discomfort possible. – “Even Adam only had to give up one rib for Eve. My angel gave up two for me.” – you chuckled and kissed his hand as he reached you, his own laughter making him wince. – “I’m sorry.” – you squeezed his hand as you stopped yourself from hugging him, knowing that would hurt far more.

“It’s my punishment to love a woman who is too delightful for my own good.” – he squeezed it back, equally wishing he could wrap his arms around you, but it was simply not the time yet.

On your walk, you suggested that, instead of leaving on the day you were supposed to, to face your father and the magistrates, you run away.

“Another daring escape? Remind me, did I fall in love with a pirate or an ordinary woman? Perhaps the memory was knocked out of my head.” – Francisco joked, not thinking it was possible to get away from what awaited you.

“And why not? What is the alternative? Let them besmirch your name beyond repair, lock you in jail and me in an attic?” – you countered, not satisfied to let injustice win.

“My love, we would need to get very far away. That means a very good plan, money, and a long journey. Even if we had the former two…”- he said sadly, bitterness taking over. – “…I am far too feeble still to travel anywhere. To get caught trying to escape would only make matters worse.”

*

For a few more days, you went in circles with Francisco, both literally as you trod the same path around the courtyard, and figuratively, as you insisted that you could run off and make it to safety, and even if you did get caught, it would make small difference to either of your condemnation.

“The more you talk, my love, the more I have a mind to…ask you something.” – he swallowed, feeling nerves eat him up.

“What?”

“It seems to me that if I confess to whatever they say about me, you might have an opportunity to restore you position in society…”- he started soothingly.

“No!” – you stopped where you stood, heart breaking instantly at the thought that your encouragement to blast everything and boldly set off for a new life was backfiring, making Francisco think smaller and more immediately, rather than larger and long-term. – “No, stop right now, I will not hear of it. If you try to so much as whisper a word of agreement with them, I will declare myself a witch, a sorceress, a succubus, a deranged, hysterical…”

“Alright, alright, alright!” - he spoke louder over you, shaking his head at himself for even trying to persuade you.

“Do you not love me? Do you not desire a life with me? Would you not risk everything to get that?” – you asked, knowing well what the answer was given that he already _had_ risked everything and could have died for it.

“I love you, woman.” – it came out almost as a threat, his hot temper eager to show you just how fiercely. – “But your strength frightens me.”

You did not view your actions as a result of some uncanny strength. They were just a result of doing what needed to be done and fighting for the life you wished, a life where you had a say over what happened and where you would not stand for intimidation or calumny, forced into wasting your short time on this earth. – “Is it off putting?” – you asked earnestly, not wanting to make it even more challenging for Francisco to deal with you than it already has been, for both of you.

“Not at all.” - he confessed, feeling his face heat up, as your behavior had quite the opposite effect. – “But if I am not your sword and your protector, what good am I?” – he admitted, the flush in his face now burning with impotent anger as he contemplated his weak body, slowly recovering, unaccustomed to labor, wondering how he would provide for you, how he would make you proud of him and keep the flame of your love alive when the reality outside of your father’s home and out from under the reach of influence set in.

“What good? Every good.” – you answered easily. – “You are my angel.”

He sighed, feeling guilty and undeserving of such immense comfort and happiness. – “And you’re my miracle.”

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: angst, some mature stuff, religious themes

**__ **

**_Be as you’ve always been_ **

**_Be like the love that discovered sin_ **

**_That freed the first man and will do so again_ **

**_And lover, be good to me_ **

**_Be the hopeful feeling when Eden was lost_ **

**_That’s been deaf to our laughter since the Master was crossed_ **

**_Which side of the wall really suffers that cost_ **

**_Oh lover, be good to me_ **

****

*

With the help of your maid, who was encouraged to take the portion of your savings you were able to give her and leave your household, you managed to secure transport out of town before dawn, three days before the magistrates were set to meet Francisco and yourself upon the expiration of your sanctuary.

Francisco left two letters; one to the Mother Superior, thanking her for her bravery and resilience in sheltering your two, despite the outcry of powerful men and the scandalous nature of the entire predicament, apologizing for having to flee so miserably, in the middle of the night, but having no hope of restoring good will, it seemed both your lives would be forfeit in making amends that would never come, while starting a new life elsewhere might put your talents and work to good use.

The other letter was briefer, as there was far more confidence with its recipient and hardly a word was necessary. The letter to Father Rodrigues simply stated that this was finally the day he would hear of his elopement, thanking him for everything he had done and wishing him a long, successful tenure in his priestly duties, remaining forever in his debt and forever in awe of his spirit.

*

The journey was grueling for Francisco, all his injuries still so fresh and tender, and you did all you could to make him comfortable, cradling him in your embrace to keep the constant violent jouncing on damaged roads from agitating his ribs and breathing in particular. The pain and the exhaustion caused him to run a mild fever, but he would not be deterred from continuing the travel, pressing whatever advantage those three days’ expedition provided you.

*

You only dared stay briefly in the nearest town, not sure how hot the pursuit of you might be.

Francisco convinced you stay hidden while he took on whatever labor was necessary, mostly physical, mostly grueling, the kind only desperate or destitute men take on.

You knew, with his scholarly proclivities, there were jobs better suited to his talents, but that would require more time and it would call more attention to him.

So you stayed behind, plotting your next move, thinking of small ways you could cheer and take care of him. His favorite mode of relaxation was walking around between the trees, sitting under their shade and holding your hand in his.

*

You moved on to the next town, then the next. You noticed you were not heading in any specific direction, neither North nor South, or East or West, more like a circle, with your hometown being the center. Francisco would listen to your suggestions and then elect a town or a village he knew something about, about the local authorities or the prominent figures and choose on the basis of what environment seemed safest.

It seemed like good fortune when, on the way to the next town, word came that a local manufacturer had problems with his accountant. The man had embezzled a good deal of money and seemed to have disappeared. It was the sort of local scandal that would, hopefully, overshadow any whispers of a fallen priest and his mistress, and it afforded Francisco the opportunity to possibly find better work. He knew enough about keeping books from his various obligations and duties in his church and parish and he had a good idea of what the man had done in the first place as several sticky-fingered accountants had confessed all sorts of things to him in the past. As long as he did not reveal their identities and source of information, he rationalized that he was not breaking the sanctity of confession. Or, conversely, that he had already profaned against so many of his duties that it hardly mattered anymore.

He was able to gain their trust enough and work under intense scrutiny for a while, until his demeanor and quality of work set the employer at ease. Your fortune improved as well when the local school was expanded and was in need of a schoolmistress. Within weeks of arriving there, you were settled and becoming well-regarded. While comforting in the immediate sense, doing jobs which drew more eyes to you was risky, should your past catch up with you. For now, you kept your eyes and ears open and accepted life as it came at you.

*

After many hours of poring over old books, Francisco came to your rented home and leaned against a wall, watching you mend a seam in one of your gowns. Your entire reaction consisted of a small, knowing smile as you leaned away to observe your work so far and a sigh before you resumed.

Though you were sharing a home and a life and a bed, Francisco was very careful about not compromising you in any way, slipping out of your grasp like vapor when embraces and kisses threatened to blossom into something more. You understood what he was doing, protecting your virtue before a legal marriage and saving you from yourself in case you should change your mind. However, his scruples and rather annoying amount of self-control were beginning you wear on you.

For his part, he was impressed how well and, frankly, easily you took to your new circumstances; not complaining in the least about the new, comparatively meager conditions of your life, working, being a stranger and experiencing that initial coldness and distrust. He had expected for the immediate euphoria to dissipate and leave in its wake a woman out of her depth; disappointed and dissatisfied, outraged and saddened by life outside a family home, with all the comforts she enjoyed, resentful of her fugitive lover for burdening her with responsibilities, and toil, and risk, and all the hardships and uncertainty of a life, essentially, on the run. But time passed and you were taking it all in stride, if anything, delighting at your freedom and his company, never minding the price at which it came. So against the wall he leaned, looking at you working away with patience and diligence that he, may he be forgiven, was not really aware you possessed. The urge to laugh joyously, in awe of his miracle, and to weep, ashamed of his doubts and unworthy of his rewards, overtook him, the two impulses colliding in his chest, shaking him from within.

He felt grateful for the support of the wall when you put the gown down, sauntering leisurely over and smiling before pressing a welcome kiss into his lips. With a satisfied exhale, almost a moan, he closed his eyes and melted into it, feeling all the stiffness and tiredness of the day disappearing. To avoid pressing into his ribs, you placed your hands on his hips and he ran his up your arms, around your neck, pulling you closer into a position what was entirely painless. Bit by bit, one inoffensive move after the next, and suddenly, the kiss had grown heated and deliberate and he only realized when his rapid breathing started to hurt in his injured side, quickly pulling away, head hitting against the wall as he looked up in plea for perseverance, mortal flesh quick to give into temptation. 

You looked at that supplicating face he cast heavenward, like he was tossed into a lion’s den, amusement battling with the fact that he had broken off many advances already, looking like he was subjected to torture. – “You’re making me feel like a robber of virtue, angel.” – you commented, loosening his collar.

Torn between offending you and offending God and moral practice, he gnashed his teeth, the humor only making it more difficult. – “I’m sorry, I’m only trying…not to fan the flames.” – he explained, feeling himself burn up and no doubt blush to the tips of his ears, the embarrassment at his flustered state being so obvious only making it worse.

“Whether you flame them or not, they’re very much consuming me.” – you stated very plainly and bluntly, feeling his whole body go rigid and knowing he was likely firing off a prayer for his modesty. – “I think you had better put them out before they rage out of control.”

Francisco felt a sweat breaking out, wondering if he’d be able to think about anything else tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. – “It might be best if I sleep in another room…”

With a step back, you pursed your lips in contemplation. – “So you would deny me everything, even your warmth at night?”

That was not fair, and you were both aware of it; Francisco particularly stung by the comment as he already wished he could give you so much more in worldly goods, endeavoring in their stead to at least provide you with abstract things which he knew you would enjoy – freedom to choose the work you wished to do, the home you occupied, listening to your opinions, laughing at your jokes and japes, telling you unreservedly and showing you, as much as decency allowed, of the admiration and passion he felt. - “No, I…” – he groaned, not able to adequately express it all. – “You are impossible. For the first time, I understand the frustration of husbands that I heard of so many times.”

“Yes, and they are then compensated for their trouble with some marital delights, are they not?” – you raised an eyebrow, leaning closer again. – “So now that you’ve tasted their frustration, why don’t we dismante the secrets of their gratification too?”

Again, he cast his eyes heavenward, slipping out of reach and wearing your pride down, not allowing you to stoop to begging. – “Let us leave room for the Holy Ghost for now, please.” – he asked, pushing you gently an arm’s length away.

“Alright.” – you huffed, taking a stomping step back. – “But you let the Holy Ghost know he is respectfully disinvited from attending at our wedding night.”

*

After almost crumbling his resolve, your questioning became more direct and more frequent, looking for an answer that felt like the real truth.

“When will we go somewhere farther? Out of reach? More to the point, when are we going to get married?” – you asked one night soon, over dinner, knowing that was the major condition Francisco had.

“Soon.” – he smiled, looking down into his plate, changing his old, unsatisfactory answer of _one day_ , hoping to placate you.

“When is soon?” – you asked without a moment’s pause.

Deciding not to let this turn into long, evasive questioning, for which you had an impressive tenacity, he relented and gave you the truth fast. – “My love, I am trying take it slow. You should be acquainted with life as it is outside your father’s home. It’s not going to be easy, and you might change your mind – with every right!” – he was quick to add, already hearing you draw in a combative breath. – “About me, working, toiling. And no matter what you think, it is _never_ too late and you _can_ turn back. And I would hold _nothing_ against you…”

The spoon hitting the plate loudly cut his speech short. – “All I want is you. The freedom to belong to you, be nobody else’s, least of all some abhorrent arranged match’s. And for that to be, everyone has to know, it has to be true, in front of God, and people. To me, it’s a mere formality - I already am yours in ways I never knew I could be. And for once, I am happy to submit to everyone else’s law, but _let_ me.” – you stopped to take a breath after the plea. What started half as a joke turned onto a very honest and heartfelt request, bringing tears to your eyes. You had both already sacrificed everything and gone down a road where there was no returning the way you came, only going forward. And now he was creating artificial obstacles as if there weren’t enough real ones.

Francisco felt moved to sadness too, wondering where giving you an opportunity to turn back ended and hurting you both needlessly started.

“Tell me. Decide, give me a time. When will you believe me? In a month? In half a year? A yeah? After I fall ill? What needs to happen so you will believe that I love you and I am not changing my mind?”

“Please, stop, it hurts me to listen.” – he covered his eyes with a hand, the sight of you troubled too painful to bear. – “I know already!” – he decided to just say it, feeling like the words would cut their way out of him if he didn’t.

“What then? Are you doubting _yourself_?” – you offered as an absurd alternative, expecting a swift denouncement. When it didn’t come as swiftly as expected, you went on. – “Did you think it would be… different somehow? Do you wish to…explore your own freedom in another way? With someone else?”

His pause, long, made you actually consider the idea that first seemed preposterous. – “Perhaps you misjudged your own emotions and you do not, in fact, love me as you thought?”

“Not love you as I thought?” – he asked the air. – “My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careening against my rib cage. I have not known a night when your visage did not accompany me to sleep. There has not been a morning when you did not flutter behind my waking eyelids. Is any of this getting through to you or do you want me to go on for a while?”

“I think I would enjoy it if you did.”

“As you wish.” – he got up and went into his papers, taking out some ink and penning a letter.

“You know you can tell me to my face? We do not need to correspond.” – you watched him for a while, staring off into the distance, a strange delight in his face as he thought up what words to write.

“We do not, my love, but we need someone to wed us. And there is only person I would trust to do that.” – he replied, setting his quill down to steady his hand, shaking with excitement.

He wrote to Sebastiao, about his trouble with the two calves they once discussed, sicker than ever with their disease. Expressing hope he might be able to come bless him. Providing an old world name of a town nearby, trusting Sebastiao to be shrewd enough to look it up, not wanting to summon him to where you were currently living, in case he was being watched.

*

More than a fortnight passed between the first letter and the ceremony, giving it enough time to arrive and providing Sebastiao enough room to make credible arrangements and make the trip. You prepared to stay at an inn for three days, hoping that somewhere in those three days you would cross paths.

You packed, leaving your pistol for last. Francisco noticed it on your bed as he came up behind you and wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Can you use that contraption?” – he asked, worried that something terrible might happen if you don’t. Your idea was sound – bring it in case someone followed Seb or tried to interfere, but Francisco would much rather go quietly if that occurred than risk your being hurt.

You pointed it at a window, remembering how you fired before. –“Yes. As long as it doesn’t rain and my powder is dry, you have nothing to worry about.”

Francisco took a step back to observe your form, the focused gaze of a hunter or soldier, and knew you were not joking. With a pleasant, warm shudder running all down his body, he leaned and placed a kiss on your extended hand, wrapped around the pistol. – “Well, I am lucky to have you to protect me.”

*

Late that third morning, Sebastiao made the last stretch of his journey and found you.

There was no time to waste, so after some food and drink to revive the weary traveler and some time to feel the ground under him out of a saddle, you retreated to a private place for a quick ceremony.

Sebastiao was beaming with joy, eyes sparkling and all of his teeth visible in his smile as he opened his book. Francisco kept taking long steadying breaths, fighting with wide smiles and a wobbly chin. As for you, you were ready for this ceremony to be under way and fast.

Sebastiao crossed his hand over your ring. – “Bless this ring, O Lord, which we bless in your name.” – he started, glancing instinctively at Francisco before resuming. – “May she who wear it be ever faithful to her husband. May she enjoy peace of mind docile to thy will, loving and being loved in thee.” – he said, and a sharp inhale from Francisco let him know that he well and truly recognized the vows he himself had penned for your wedding when he was set to officiate. – “As long as life shall last. With this ring, I thee wed.” – Sebastiao dictated and Francisco repeated, hardly needing prompting. The words were etched in his mind forever after weeks of agonizing over them. - “This gold and silver I thee give. With this body, I thee worship. And with all my worldly gifts I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

You took a moment to look at the band on your finger, Francisco’s hand still around it and, although you had been pestering him relentlessly, it still seemed like a dream, like something that was too good and wonderful to be happening on this earth.

“Now please, kiss the bride, Fran, before she twists both our heads off our bodies, I believe she’s waited long enough.” – Seb encouraged his friend, equally as entranced and immobile as you, catching a brief glimpse of the excited embrace and searing kiss before casting his eyes down and saying a silent prayer for your health and happiness.

“My dear friends, I am honored to have officiated for you. You are in my thoughts. But now I must go before anyone notices my absence.” – Sebastiao announced and you both whipped your heads in his direction.

“But you just got here!” – you protested.

“Must you really go?” – Francisco joined you, less passionately, knowing that if Seb had to leave, there was a good reason. After all, he did not do things on a whim and he had already risked a lot simply by meeting you.

“I am meant to meet with some magistrates in the next town this afternoon. And, not to alarm you, but they still remember the events that bring us three together on this day. So I would beseech you to go, go somewhere farther away.” – he tried to offer an encouraging smile, but his expressive eyes showed his worry and compassion. You two just nodded, as that was the plan anyway.

“Take care of my friend.” – Sebastiao smiled and whispered in your ear as you hugged him tightly and you nodded.

With Fran, he just shared a look and they embraced. – “I will write to you when I can. Thank you for everything.”

*

You returned to the inn to get ready to start your own journey back, soaring with excitement all the way back, and once inside the room, you stopped and sighed. – “Who knew I would consummate my marriage for the first time in some out of the way inn?” – you mused, chewing on your thumbnail.

Francisco also stopped, a lump in his throat. – “We could put it off until we return.” – he suggested, since that is what he assumed would happen.

With decisive strides in his direction, you laughed at the idea and he resigned himself, quite happily, to not struggling against your advances anymore. – “I seem to remember something in those vows about body? And worship? Remind me.” – you asked, lifting his chin with your index finger to get at the buttons of his shirt.

His mouth and the concept of words were not cooperating with his brain for a moment, so he opened and closed his mouth, huffing, and finally sorted himself out enough to speak, your fingers already grazing halfway down his chest. - “That is really…more of a metaphor…for…” – he lost his train of thought again, metaphors far too complex for the very simple and urgent necessities that presented themselves right now, looking down to see you opening his buttons feverishly, yanking the ends of the shirt out of his pants.

When he fell silent and his breathing got more shallow, in contrast to your increasingly rapid one, you stilled for a moment and found him looking rather ashen. –“Are you alright, angel?” – you asked, worried he might collapse.

While he summoned the power of speech with an effort, he nodded, shaking his dark locks up and down, making you smile in relief. – “Please, keep going.” – he said quietly, before you mercifully pulled him into a kiss, tongue sweeping between his full lips without preamble, spurring him into a passionate outburst like a whip cracking on a horse’s flanks.

Half undressed, aflame with desire for his wife, her body resting against his, he finally realized with a calm finality that he had truly abandoned his old profession; he was no longer a celibate priest and his life was for his wife and future family. And most importantly, nothing was stopping him from giving you whatever you wanted. So without reservations, he launched himself into the work of coupling.

He took off the layers of your simple work dress, undid the bodice, sticking his finger against your spine and pulling at the strings, making you hold at your stomach with both hands for support, too much excitement and joy threatening to make you faint. Still a bit too overwhelmed and shy to look, he kissed at the skin he was exposing with his undressing, gradually moving lower as he slipped off the gown and moved on to the stockings. Once on his knees, lips gliding over one side of your hip, he opened his eyes, following the expanse of skin up over your stomach, breasts, chest, up to your face, lips between your teeth and eyes watching him intently. He gave the length of your legs the same loving attention before scooping you up and placing you on the bed, throwing pesky clothing off his bottom half and marveling at the feeling of skin on burning skin.

After some maddening, trembling worship, the extent of both your inexperience was evident, but love and good will can get you far regardless. He really had no clear idea how or, indeed, where to go about inserting himself, so he needed a guiding hand and encouragement to press on despite some wincing and huffing from you, though he knew enough to expect that beforehand. Instinct and quick experimentation took over, resulting in a roiling, writhing mass of limbs and a breathless, heaving heap of flesh and sheets and sweat and glow, absorbing all the new sensations and horizons of intimacy.

At home, you eagerly continued the labor of honing your lovemaking skills, learning every night, and most morns, what to do more and less of, the secret alphabet of your spouse’s body and gratification, two acts changing you fundamentally – for you, feeling your husband, long and hard, fully seated inside you that first time, for him, several times later, feeling you contract around him, hard and fast at first, then slower and softer, your face more beautifully surrendered and blissed out then he had ever seen it before.

*

When you had relocated to a lovely coastal town, in part for the pleasant climate favorable for you weakened heart and his constitution, marred by a long period of asceticism, in part because it was a long way away from your original home, Francisco was quick to break in the new bed, picking you up in a twirling hug and landing softly on it, digging through the layers of your dress and undergarments as you watched his happy, eager face and moved his shiny hair out of his face, laying back and feeling your body respond gleefully to his ministrations.

When you were both spent, you propped your head on his chest, looking far out at the horizon and the water glittering in the morning sun and he stared off into some other distance, in a conversation with God, as he did most days and after particularly searing encounters with his beloved wife, his miracle.

_Forgive me for my weakness. I have sinned numerous times, and I know I will again, in the same bed and with the same woman._

_Unless I’m much mistaken, You set her on my path and set me the task to adore her, which I do, wholly and gladly, and made me to be her companion._

_If I am wrong, then I can only throw myself at Your mercy. A weak, lowly man, I love her more than my salvation._

_Though I continue to adore You, I know I won’t be able to stop, so do with me what you will._

_Amen._

*


End file.
